Marra moves like someone who has spent equal parts of her life in crowded docks and waist-deep in fetid water. Her leather coat is repaired so many times it has become a patchwork map of palms and soot; a lined, oil-dark scarf almost always hides the low, puckered burn across her left cheek. A tattoo of interlocking tunnels—streets, sewer veins, and secret caches—runs from the inside of her left wrist up across her forearm in thin, faded ink that glints when wet. She wears a leather bracer of runed metal over the tattoo; when she flexes, tiny cogs whisper under the skin of the bracer. Her movements are economical and measured, but she has a quick, unpredictable flick of the wrist — the habit of a tinkerer who trusts her hands before her eyes. Unexpectedly, she carries an old, delicate porcelain music-box in a zipped pocket, which she winds on rare nights when the city is quiet.